


sleep to the freezing

by sunflower_8



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Anxiety, Complicated Relationships, M/M, Melancholy, Mental Instability, Running Away, Suicidal Thoughts, Terminal Illnesses, Tragedy, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:07:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27426193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflower_8/pseuds/sunflower_8
Summary: When Komaeda wakes up, Hinata will get up and get them some food, maybe. He knows that Komaeda likes the dry cinnamon biscuits and banana muffins, and Hinata needs a bottle of orange juice (or maybe some more coffee). They’ll talk quietly about anything they like, Komaeda’s raspy giggles motivating Hinata to keep the conversation afloat-- in turn, he’ll listen to Komaeda talk about The Raven again, for despite all the times he’s discussed it, Hinata would still listen. They’ll kiss softly-- on the cheek, the forehead, the mouth, the neck-- and they’ll intertwine together,and in the same breath. Komaeda will remind Hinata that he is dying, and Hinata will breathe through his nose and try not to cry.(hinata recounts his relationship with his past-tense angel, komaeda, as the two of them escape all that they have for a chance at the slight hope they've found in the spaces between their living tragedy. scattered accounts of their journey and what comes after, guided by the dichotomy of romanticized death and fearful love that fill their skies like fallen stars.)
Relationships: Hinata Hajime & Kirigiri Kyoko, Hinata Hajime & Nanami Chiaki, Hinata Hajime/Komaeda Nagito, Komaeda Nagito & Nanami Chiaki
Comments: 7
Kudos: 51





	1. i - dying aurora borealis

The outside world looks icy and bruised, a stark contrast to the warmth within the train. 

In a sense, warmth is an incorrect, presumptuous sort of term. The air is stale in a way where the stagnancy makes every clinging piece of warmth feel suffocating, the bittersweet sensation of curling up near a fire and only breathing in the scent of coals and firewood. The crackling sounds may ease you to sleep, but there’s a fighting pit in your lungs where all the dark matter went, and in the end, you’re not certain if you’re better off.

That’s the way the train ride feels, to Hinata Hajime, as he rides off somewhere unfamiliar.

The journey itself isn’t unfamiliar, necessarily. He is accustomed to long travels and sleepless nights, and there’s little he can find akin to a stranger when he has luggage filled with sentiments and a boy he knows better than himself asleep in his lap. The strangers sitting in the train, as well as the conductor, may be foreign faces, but that’s not quite of consequence to him, so long as they aren’t so unkind to break the illusion he wears for sanity.

It’s more a matter of the places they’re going. The risk they’re taking. The way that they fled all that they had,  _ taking  _ all that they had, and the spiteful voice in their heads telling them  _ oh, you are so ungrateful.  _ And yet, one could retort, if ungratefulness and pride is what brought the two of them here, then why are Hinata’s legs numb and his lover’s body still shivering, even with two blankets piled atop?

It is pathetic. It is necessary.

Hinata knows nothing and everything about that, at least.

He looks at the other, now. Komaeda Nagito, the previously-lively seventeen year old, who stole Hinata’s heart in the same shattering way he broke it. When Hinata thinks about him, he thinks keenly of a new spring, how his curls would bounce emphatically when he discussed something he was passionate about, how he would look so endearingly soft when reading to himself, how his happy days felt like the lights of Hinata’s life, and he would sell his soul and every piece of himself he hasn’t already given for Komaeda to live in a shadow of an aurora borealis. 

(komaeda likes seeping, quiet places, where the darkness is cast against the light, resting himself there. hinata has never agreed. but it has never been anything more than a reflection of himself).

This was the past, though, he notes. Everything has shifted cataclysmically since; the early spring is now the last autumn, hardly a difference unless you are around to see the leaves fall. The curls he loved are still soft to the touch, even when a lock falls against the linoleum floor of their old place in an academy. His eyes trip over the words on pages, and though he carries very few books, he often wants them read, will wrap himself in Hinata’s embrace and plead, fighting off frustration when he can’t piece every letter together himself. And oh, the happy days still fill Hinata with a (burning, dying) hope, but they are seldom, and often as bittersweet as the frigid winter they found themselves traveling in.

All this aside, Hinata still loves him. Rid from his eyes are the accusations of a deviled boy with deadly luck and an even more poisonous mind-- Hinata has learned the poison only sets in when you sink your teeth in turn-- he knows, instead, that Komaeda is lovely. His porcelain skin is littered with bruises and cracks, shattered pieces of his essence that seep into his bellicose defense and his too-soft heart, but Hinata still loves the broken body he could never save. Even when he is at his lowest, he is still an angel, solely fallen, and Hinata should not romanticize the ending they are accustomed to, but there is so little to do.

(his love is a dying aurora borealis; he cries  _ stay, stay  _ every hour, every night, like vigil.)

He takes his eyes off of Komaeda, briefly, but not before brushing some hair from his eyes and watching him snuggle against the newfound contact. He used to be more colorful, too, with hints of auburn in his hair, hues of emerald in his irises, even shimmers of peach in his skin. Now, though, he is rid of colors, desaturated against Hinata’s selfish rainbow, and their love, too, is paramour.

With his attention taken off the sleeping person against him, he moves to pull out a letter again, the same one he has read ever since the train started moving an hour ago. It’s not comfort, rather something he struggles to process, and he feels (rather, fears) he may grow closer with one more look, a critical eye. That is something she always spoke of, after all-- albeit, a person of few words, an acquaintance with a hidden presence, only called upon for one thing alone.

And yet, she always knew how to read Hinata in ways he wished he could acquire (maybe to read her, or Komaeda, or himself).

The letter reads the same as before-- neat print, kanji elegantly written, no pen smudges or marks from the author. It states, simply,

_ Hinata Hajime: _

_ I suspect that you will see this note before you depart on your upcoming journey. It is not one you have spoken of before, even in reference to your closest friend, the sole exception being the person you are travelling with. If I am correct, you will leave little remarks behind of your disappearance, but you will not slip away as seamlessly as you believe you will. After all, I have found these clues leading me to this conclusion, and you and I both know I am not a miracle among detectives; rather, a lucky one. _

_ On this note. Komaeda Nagito is the one you are with. I have spoken little to him, and you have tended to avoid bringing him up, but I am aware of the fact that he visited the infirmary often. When I was kept there for my eye incident-- one you may remember, or perhaps I will tell you of it another time-- I saw him with bruises, clumsy little accidents, as well as matters I know are more severe. _

_ This is why you have left, and you have taken him with you. His money and wits, as well as your compassion and street smarts, will take you far enough.  _

_ I ask that you keep yourself safe, however. Don’t do anything stupid. Don’t get yourself hurt.  _

_ Below, I am leaving three phone numbers. One is my work-related phone, I should hear most calls to that one often. Another is the number of my classmate, Togami Byakuya. However callous he may be, he owes me for an event long ago, and I have taken this up here. The final is for a coworker and perhaps family member of mine, Kizakura Koichi. He appears unreliable due to his prevalent problem with alcoholism, but he is sharper than he acts to be. I know your number; however, I will leave it to you to call. _

_ XXX-XXX-XXXX _

_ XXX-YYY-YYYY _

_ XXX-ZZZ-ZZZZ _

_ This is all I have to say, but I will leave with a closing remark. I may not know exactly why you have left, or what logic told you that this was the clearest of decisions, but I wish you the best with it. And, for all it’s worth, if you ever need someone to help you in any way, call me. I can leave you an email as well, though I’m certain you have been given it somehow. _

_ Best of luck,  _

_ Kirigiri Kyoko _

He sighs as he finishes rereading it, tucking it away again. Kirigiri’s note was not the only parting message he had been given, though the easiest to relive-- his withdrawal from the school, abruptly, had been met with a hasty meeting with Kirigiri Jin (her father, though heavily disliked by her and Hinata), which gave no semblance of closure but a sense of conclusion nonetheless. His messages on his phone, though he has not grown the strength to reply, nearly left him in tears, if not for the sole number of messages, for the heartbreaking words in them. Some were mournful, some were confused, some were indignant, some wished him the best.

He will reply to them, one day. Though, he fears this day will come when there is no longer a person at his side.

It’s hard to avoid the conclusion he has been plagued with. Komaeda, the person he loves more than anything, is dying. He is dying, and the plague of physical and mental illnesses left him with both requests and requirements. Hinata, in truth, cares more about the cure he is searching for than the last wishes Komaeda had-- he is not ready to let go yet, never will be. But regardless of cause, they are traveling together, and Hinata will only return to his home when all he could do has been done.

He hopes, with every faltering piece of himself, that the best he can do is save him. That perhaps he can find the one person with the medicine to save him-- or hell, synthesize it himself-- or that maybe Komaeda’s cruel, fickle luck could carry them just a little further. Yet, Hinata knows that Komaeda’s view is different, that to Komaeda, dying is not a burden so much as it is a dream. A traumatic nightmare, an idealized dream, or some area in between, neither are certain. 

However, Komaeda truly, truly views it as a piece of his future life, and Hinata struggles to dispute it.

Hinata tucks a lock of white hair behind an equally pale ear, leaning down (no matter how uncomfortable it may be) to kiss Komaeda’s forehead. He looks angelic when he is asleep, but his breaths are faint and light, his eyes misty and bleary, his lips chapped and murmuring. Hinata cannot banish the memories of Komaeda wailing from nightmares, or waking up giggling-- it’s a frustrating, rising wish to  _ know  _ the other acutely, but he knows Komaeda will never let him.

He still loves him, though. He left all they had behind-- the academy, the remnants of their childhood, their friends-- to escape, taking only the money Komaeda had (and the scarily few possessions that ground him to his earth) and the sentimental and occasional practical items Hinata had (all his money given to a lost dream). He didn’t want to pack too heavily, didn’t want to tie himself down when he isn’t yet certain he will be staying there in a permanent sense, but he didn’t want to leave them deprived.

Komaeda has only ever been deprived, neglected, abandoned, and hurt. Hinata will be damned before he lets his final moments look the same.

(he gets upset, sometimes, that komaeda will leave him deprived, neglected, abandoned, and hurt when he is gone. but hinata, for all the little comfort it could bring, knows that if komaeda had the choice, he would stay alive. it’s something he has to cling to.)

His thumb brushes across Komaeda’s lips, leaning down to kiss his temple again before shifting in his seat. Hinata’s legs are asleep from the cramp manner they formed when they tried to arrange themselves like this, Komaeda cozy in his lap and Hinata protectively watching, and he  _ knows _ Komaeda must not be the most comfortable, but they make it work. They always do-- wherever they go, they will make it work.

It’s frightening, the consequences of failing.

In Hinata’s mindless motions-- rubbing his cheek, brushing over his lips, kissing his forehead, playing with his hair-- Komaeda blinks awake, eyes heavy and tired. He always looks so exhausted even after sleeping, a lifetime of nightmares and anguish leaving him etched with misery. Hinata just hopes he can make resting easier, even if he knows he plays no part in stopping the terrors from ravaging Komaeda. 

“Hey,” he whispers softly to Komaeda, watching as the other blinks and focuses on him. He knows that they are too tired to talk; they have learned to read the cues, just thankful that Komaeda has taught them. “Sorry for waking you up. We’re on the train, been on here for around an hour. You remember?” Sometimes, Komaeda doesn’t, but today he nods. Hinata smiles fondly, sadly. “Alright. You can go back to bed. I’ve got you.”

“Hinata-kun,” Komaeda mumbles, a sleepy slur and their usual rasp prevalent in their nighttime voice. Hinata makes sure to listen carefully, not missing a word as he affirmatively hums and watches his lips. “Love you.”

Hinata’s smile grows weaker, more adoring. It all feels so helpless, sometimes, and yet… “I love you too. Get some more rest, okay? You need it.”

Komaeda nods, eyes closing slowly. In only a few minutes, he is asleep again, and Hinata relaxes at the realization despite his contrasting soft movements on Komaeda’s face. It’s a dichotomy, a contradiction, one Hinata finds too difficult to discern. An ache when Komaeda does not speak to him, a pain when he does. How awful of him, how convoluted.

It will plague him forever. He just hopes he will still love Komaeda then, and by the end of the night, and by tomorrow and all the days thereafter. He worries, sometimes, that his brain will slip away and rip his heart from his hands, tongue-tied as he accepts what feels as if it is fantasy: that Komaeda is nothing to him, that this is all for the better, or that maybe Komaeda should have died, unloved, in a cemetery inches away from his future grave. He hopes he can still control it, even when those thoughts intrude in his mind and make him panic.

It sounds so very frightening, a reality where he isn’t in love with him.

Hinata turns his eyes back to the letter. When they arrive, he will perhaps attempt to call her, nothing to say on the line but desperate for the idiosyncratic company she always offered. She would never press, would never demand an answer, would be willing to stay on the call for however long he needs, free from the promise of having to  _ say  _ anything to him. It would break the loneliness, he thinks. He could attempt to breach his phone, too, but the list of messages are long and anxious.

It saddens him, how many messages he has when Komaeda has none. With his parents dead and his sole friends being closer to Hinata, there are few people there for him aside from Hinata himself. It’s… tragic, but Komaeda has always shrugged it off.  _ It’s fine, Hinata-kun!  _ he would always claim.  _ I really, truly don’t mind. _

Hinata wonders how much of that is true. If Komaeda is lying to him-- or, more likely, if Komaeda is lying to himself. Denial is a frighteningly powerful thing, which is why Hinata is still here, which is why Hinata doesn’t run himself down to bones from crying all his life out, rivulets dripping to tiled floors and open palms. Perhaps Komaeda needs this denial, too. Perhaps Hinata cannot be critical of that.

There  _ is _ one message Komaeda gets. Not in the form of a long text message, or a detailed email, or a post on some social media. Instead, it is one voicemail, one Komaeda listened to once and said nothing about after, but Hinata has listened to a thousand times since.

He pulls open Komaeda’s phone, guilt as he does so, a breach of privacy he cannot stop himself from doing, and finds the phone call list to be short, even with the surplus of scammers. He clicks on the anonymous number’s voicemail again, holding it to his ear and playing it quietly, listening as a familiar voice drips from the speakers.

There is the sound of video games in the background, but Nanami is louder in the soft way she always was. The Class Representative of 77B, a clear and strong presence despite how weak she can tend to be. One of Hinata’s closest friends before he left, someone who he misses at every moment, who sent him only two messages at his departure, but two heartbreaking messages at that. Even hearing her voice is enough to fill Hinata with heartache, a desire to crawl back to her, bury his face in her shoulder and say,  _ I’m sorry I can’t be strong, but I’m so afraid, how did you always manage to save people? _

The voicemail isn’t very long. Animal Crossing music plays-- some OST, he imagines, unsure if she would be able to play the game herself in a time like that. Maybe that’s her way to cope. He isn’t sure. In any case, it takes five seconds before she talks, and he always waits those five seconds in full anticipation.

And then, she starts.

_ Komaeda-kun. You weren’t in your room today or the infirmary… I’m guessing you’re with Hinata-kun, maybe. I think the two of you left of your own accord… yup. Definitely. I miss seeing you, but you had your reasons… probably. So I can wait. Come back someday, though, okay? Both of you. Even if it’s in a couple of years… some sequels take a while to come… just come back. I’ll get some more three player games, okay? Just keep your stamina and health bar up, and we’ll talk later. Mm… yeah, I think we will. Probably. Bye, Komaeda-kun. And, if Hinata-kun hears this… you’re doing good, okay? Just don’t be stupid. Okay, that’s all, I think. Bye. _

The ending of the voicemail still leaves Hinata on the verge of tears, but he sets the phone down and takes a few deep breaths. She said he was doing good, that he just… shouldn’t be stupid. Haha. He can manage that, he thinks. Even when he feels so, so useless.

She was always really great at that, soft encouragement. God, he misses her so much, misses playing video games with her, misses venting while she patiently listened, misses the hugs they shared only a couple times. It’s because of her that he even met Komaeda, that Komaeda even warmed up to him. She meant so much to him-- he had never had a friend like that, before.

He left her behind, though, and this is the price he has to pay. He knows, were he desperate, he could find his way back to her, that she would take him back in without questions, grabbing him some orange juice and leaning against his shoulder as she played video games. Like with Kirigiri, if Hinata wanted to talk, Nanami would listen, but she would never make him. At worst, she would pinch his cheek and tell him to be more careful, to allow others to help him. And, haha, he’d deserve that.

It’s not like it would have been a viable option, though. This is the only way Hinata had.

Komaeda misses her, too. Even though he only heard the recording once, his face entirely empty throughout, Hinata knows that they got along. That Nanami placed her faith in Komaeda, over and over again, encouraged him and scolded him, helped him realize that the reserve course student she played video games with wasn’t all that bad. The two of them knew each other for longer than Hinata knew them, and he knows that Komaeda must miss her. 

Komaeda… is just used to missing, Hinata thinks. It’s why the trip didn’t hurt him so bad-- having nothing is easier to him than having something,  _ anything _ . While Hinata cries over all the people he had to leave behind, Komaeda just reassures him that they have to keep moving. Sometimes, Hinata wonders if Komaeda would miss him, too.

(if hinata didn’t have komaeda, he would be filled with an ache, would never be able to look at morning dew the same, or shakespeare, or olive green, or autumn storms. he would be so very empty, consumed with misery and pain, and he would never be able to get rid of that burden. it’s the price of love, he knows, and it’s selfish to wonder if komaeda would feel the same. it’s even more selfish to hope that he would.

he doesn’t want komaeda to be in pain, but he doesn’t want komaeda to be happy without him.

it’s such a shame that komaeda will die happy, then.)

When Komaeda wakes up, Hinata will get up and get them some food, maybe. He knows that Komaeda likes the dry cinnamon biscuits and banana muffins, and Hinata needs a bottle of orange juice (or maybe some more coffee). They’ll talk quietly about anything they like, Komaeda’s raspy giggles motivating Hinata to keep the conversation afloat-- in turn, he’ll listen to Komaeda talk about  _ The Raven  _ again, for despite all the times he’s discussed it, Hinata would still listen. They’ll kiss softly-- on the cheek, the forehead, the mouth, the neck-- and they’ll intertwine together,

and in the same breath. Komaeda will remind Hinata that he is dying, and Hinata will breathe through his nose and try not to cry.

He loves him. Even when their life is ever so bittersweet, heading to unknown horizons with nothing but a dying aurora borealis to guide them, the star plot of their destructive love (and oh, how it will kill them both in the end), he still loves him.

He closes his eyes for one, two, three seconds. When he opens them, he looks down and breathes softly. Komaeda is still here. Nothing has changed. Sometimes, he needs to trust the world, needs to close his eyes and hope that when he wakes up, nothing is different. Nothing is  _ missing. _

It’s terrifying, sometimes. It keeps him sane all the same.

He sighs, turns around to look out the window. It’s so cold outside, icy and muted, and Hinata can see Komaeda in the reflection. He sighs again, watching quietly as the world passes on (and silently, his thoughts trace back. with every passing second, they both find themselves closer to the end.)


	2. ii - harakiri

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hinata reads to komaeda, finds himself afraid of their circumstances, and thinks about forgiveness. he also has a nightmare.

Komaeda asks Hinata to read to him often.

He doesn’t have many books with him. A few novels, some playscripts, some poetry anthologies. Still, he doesn’t seem to particularly mind, re-reading them thousands of times, worn down pages and midnight annotations, holding them close to his chest like they’re his entire world. Considering how lonely Komaeda has been his entire life, in conjunction with how well-read he appears, it makes sense. He is someone so encased in solitude, even from his own conscious, that the words of dead poets are the only way he can convey himself.

In a sense, it’s tragic. 

Hinata reads to him anyway, when the pain is not a matter of ethics.

Today, on the train, he hands him an anthology of W.B Yeats’ poems. Both of them are well-versed in English, albeit Hinata trips on his words sometimes, but Komaeda is patient with him. Hell, Komaeda has sat for hours just to listen to Hinata mumble through words, caught up on the longer ones, like  _ epiphany  _ and  _ rhythmic,  _ along with the more subtle ones,  _ glove  _ and  _ sunken.  _ Sometimes, Komaeda helps him. Most of the time, he just waits-- not in a pressuring way, exactly, but Hinata still wishes he was better.

Regardless, he runs his fingers along the page of the book, thin and yet almost too heavy to hold (or maybe a reverse), as Komaeda looks at him excitedly. He’s sitting up across from Hinata in the train seats-- they’ll have to get on a different train, soon, and keep going-- with bright eyes. 

It’s endearing enough that Hinata presses past the first page, reading over the table of contents and allowing Komaeda to jab a finger against  _ He wishes his Beloved were Dead.  _ Hinata hesitates at the title, tries not to let his mind get distracted as he flips to page 28, Komaeda seemingly unperturbed by the double meaning it all seems to carry. Or rather, maybe he knows, but he wants Hinata to work it out first.

He does that often, testing Hinata, spurring him to find his own conclusions. It’s not quite necessary, all of the time, but Hinata finds it just an aspect of Komaeda’s character (an aspect that keeps shifting, when hinata isn’t sure if the person across from him is the same person he’s always been). This could just be a case of that.

Regardless, Hinata spares one last glance at Komaeda before beginning to read. 

_ Were you but lying cold and dead, _

_ And lights were paling out of the West, _

_You would came_ _come hither, and bend your head,_

_ And I would lay my head on your breast; _

_ And you would murmur tender words, _

_ Forgiving me, because you were dead: _

_ Nor would you rise and hasten away, _

_ Though you have the will of wild birds, _

_ But know your hair was bound and wound _

_ About the stars and moon and sun: _

_ O would, beloved, that you lay _

_ Under the dock-leaves in the ground, _

_ While lights were paling one by one. _

Komaeda's face, as he listens, is a mix of pleasant and analytical. His mind focuses on the words-- at least, as much as he  _ can  _ focus on them-- but the general rhythm of the poem seems to soothe him, despite how Hinata likely fucks up the meter and syllables and all of the technicals he was never quite good at it. He listens patiently until the end, stays quiet even longer, but Hinata knows that he will break the silence soon.

And he does. “The lines five and six.  _ And you would murmur tender words… forgiving me, because you were dead,”  _ His English is crisp and clear; Hinata would listen to him talk for hours, were it not for the rasp in his voice, the pauses for rushed breaths. “If you stripped aside all of the metaphors that made the poem, that is the root, isn’t it? It reminds me of something.” Komaeda pauses, waiting for a guess.

Hinata takes it, tries to place himself in Komaeda’s shoes, finds it too taxing of a role. “... Autumn, right? With the leaves falling, and… trees bare.” He never knows when to stop talking, when Komaeda wants him to keep going, words winding and stumbling until he cuts him off. This time, though, Komaeda nods, and Hinata stops there.

“Close. Autumn is like the words themselves, yes. You really are clever.” Hinata flushes a bit at the compliment, finds that misplaced, tries to sheath it. Komaeda’s eyes are like daggers. “Do you know what  _ harakiri _ is, Hinata-kun? Or, rather,  _ seppuku _ , if that is more familiar?”

_ His eyes are like daggers. _

“Kind of? Isn’t that…” he wets his lips, chews on them. Komaeda says nothing. He continues, fumbling and twisting a thousand sizes smaller. “... some kind of ritual? When samurais commit suicide?”

“More specifically, a ritual suicide through disembowlement, by the method of a sword,” he explains, fingers twitching in his lap, clasping closer. “It is done as an act of honor. Instead of being executed or disgraced, they do it themselves. In a sense, this poem is harakiri, reversed.”

Hinata tilts his head a bit and squints his eyes, shifting to sit closer to Komaeda. Their knees brush against each other; Hinata can only hope it doesn’t bruise. “What do you mean?”

“This poem is a request for submission, in a sense. The centerpiece lover, corrupt as they may be, wants their partner to die, so that they can submit to them. So that they can be forgiven for all they’ve done.  _ Forgiving me, because you were dead  _ is nothing but a desire, a want to be given impunity at the cost of losing the one you loved. Or… is it even a cost?” 

“I guess not.” Hinata feels a bit tense. “If they wanted their lover dead, then…”

Komaeda tilts his head, some frail hair strands falling and brushing his shoulders. Hinata will have to cut it. “Do you think you could wish someone dead and love them the same? Is a desire, no matter how selfish, to be forgiven through the death of your lover… a sign of mercy? What do you think, Hinata-kun?” 

Hinata wonders if Komaeda would ever give him a piece of text without a defined purpose behind it. Finds the trail of thought just as hopeless as the question he poses, face soft and innocuous. Intentioned. 

“... No,” is what Hinata settles on, albeit hesitant to make that stance. “I think… if you want your lover dead, that reflects something on you. Right? I mean, I- not everyone is a samurai? We don’t all have that honor, so…”

“Honor cast aside, there’s still guilt.” The silver cuts into Hinata’s palms, something at the hilt of the sword Komaeda is defending with. Hinata’s always on the offensive, too terrified to press-- Komaeda has nothing to lose, nothing to gain, nothing to make a white flag out of. His coughs are the smoke, his impulses are the fire, his points are like bullets and they all cut through Hinata’s skin. Maybe it’s guilt, then, or… or something like that. Speaking of. “Even if someone hurt you, someone you cared for, and you hated them… would you still say that wishing them dead is wrong?”

Komaeda never hurt him. Komaeda cared for him, and Hinata loved him back.  _ Hinata never hated him--  _ he thinks so, at least, he hopes so, maybe.

It’s just something else, then. Komaeda must be pressing for something else. 

(but hinata knows that komaeda is more honest when he’s like this. knows that this is the point he’s pushing, prodding, with the blunt edge of a blade. knows that hinata just has to take it.)

Hinata shakes his head. “Yeah, I think that…” and suddenly, his point falters under the weight of Komaeda’s gaze. He changes course. “Being forgiven by a dead person isn’t really forgiveness at all. It’s just… wishful thinking.”

“Wishful thinking,” Komaeda echoes. He pauses. Considers it carefully. And then he hums, and Hinata knows that’s all. “I suppose so.”

“There’s something else you’re getting at.” Because Hinata knows. He doesn’t want to press, but there’s an impulse there, something compelling him to ask. To take a bite of something saccharinely poisonous, let it all fall around him, his bones crumbled.

“You’re terrified, Hinata-kun,” Komaeda says softly. Gently. It cuts deeper. “Everything we’ve done together… it’s making you afraid of yourself. You want someone to forgive you, and I could, but only after this is over. Only after I-”

“ _ No. _ ” Hinata says firmly. He pretends his voice doesn’t crack. “Absolutely not. That’s not going to happen, Komaeda. I won’t let it.”

Komaeda just smiles sweetly. “I’m  _ tired, _ Hinata-kun.”

He shifts silently to allow Komaeda to move over to his side, then, to curl up against his shoulder and slip into a somewhat-dreamless sleep, eyelids closed lightly and lips parted with ghostly breathing. Hinata runs his fingers through Komaeda’s hair, feels the curls in his palm and tries to derive the joy he can from that, keeping his thoughts quiet as the other drifts off. 

It petrifies him, sometimes, watching Komaeda sleep. What is tranquil finds itself countervailed by the everpresent horror of his looming death, the endless risk that he will drift off against Hinata and lose his breath somewhere in dreams of cliffsides and catalysts (because that is how the worst nightmares unfold. hinata never asks). The softness of his body and the seraphic features are basked in a ray of light, while the shadowy cuts of his cheekbones, his clattering wrists, (the contours and swells of his frame, the divots in his hips, the jutting of his ribs, the stutter of his breath), it all shifts beauty to pity in the easiest of ways.

It leaves Hinata feeling pathetic. Lacking. 

Komaeda used to describe him as the cusp of summer and spring, with a mind like winter and a kiss like autumn, sunkissed skin and a scrawny frame, clever eyes and tousled tawny hair. Komaeda always had this way of making him sound lovely, despite the much colder words he spared no one from in the start of their relationship. He talks about daydreams and chartreuse grass and fresh orange juice, a thousand metaphors to encapsulate  _ Hinata Hajime,  _ as if he ever needed to be remembered.

But Hinata isn’t dying. Hinata isn’t an angel. Hinata is just a person-- deeply flawed and led by impulses, but a person who has only ever wanted to be something else. And his most selfish sin of all is wishing that he could be like Komaeda, a martyr (but komaeda is not a martyr), a victim (but komaeda is not a victim), a lover (but komaeda is not a lover). His sin is the crippling desire to be something to remember, something someone would give their entire life for, and  _ make it mean it. _

Komaeda has given his life for Hinata, and Hinata has given his life for Komaeda, but only one of them needs that life. Only one of them values it.

Hinata finds himself looking over at Komaeda again. He’s shivering in his sleep, so Hinata cuddles closer, kisses down his cheek and smooths his hair down. And as he watches Komaeda’s body relax into his, an unknowing trust that Hinata rarely sees in the morning, he finds himself thinking  _ forgive me, forgive me. _

\--

Hinata didn’t dream until he met Komaeda.

Or, to be precise. He did dream, but he didn’t recall them. They slipped his mind before he could even wake up, rendered absolutely nothing, another part of his life that was lacking. There was a period of time where he  _ did  _ recall, and all his dreams contained scalpels, looming professors he should not have been so afraid of, irritable figures marked by shadows, and injuries that were already scabbed over-- he wouldn’t tell anyone about them. He already figured out why they happened.

(they went away. he doesn’t know why. or how. or where they went.)

When he first met Komaeda, his dreams were tormented. Mocking laughter would ring in his head loud enough that it would explode; he would feel everything as if it were hyper saturated. Sometimes, he dreamt of kissing him, intertwined together like a cusp. Those dreams faded quickly when replaced with real life.

All over the course of the relationship, they shifted accordingly, heightened his anxieties and softened the happiest of moments. Equally terrifying--  _ heart pounding, heavy breathing, hand on his phone ready to call someone, anyone _ \-- and peaceful--  _ a sated smile, a flush across his body, the sun a little brighter than usual. _ It wasn’t a constant, even then, however; he didn’t sleep for dreams, he slept to quell the endless exhaustion that only Komaeda could take away, for the briefest of moments.

Now, though, they’re relentless. Hinata closes his eyes, and a nightmare comes.

This time, he is sluggish. He is running, paceless, but he is slowed by the backwards-press the weight of an entire sea, the highest decibels making his ears ring while his senses burn with salt, something to expel. In front of him, there is a fox, nine-tailed with blood-soaked fur and light breathing, choking on the same poison Hinata is (but a human is lesser than a nine-tailed fox). With all his faltering strength, he attempts to run, but he is pulled back.

The fox yips at him, something precious and bittersweet, and seconds before its death, the grass opens to a gaping hole that the spirit is lost in, wind gushing out as if from an vein, the loud thumping of footsteps and heartbeats until every trace of the world is gone, aside from himself.

Shaking, he can hear the fox behind him, in front of him, at his sides, on  _ top  _ of him. He can’t move, entirely paralyzed as the nine tails suffocate him, until all the undulating sound dies out into a poet, reading familiar lines:  _ While lights were paling one by one… _

(his dreams always leave gaps, in the endings. he always assumes that he dies just as the nightmare concludes. he thinks it might be easier to believe, that way. an inverse of plausible deniability… or something like that.)

When he wakes up, Komaeda is still asleep at his side-- and he has nightmares, too, but Hinata rarely knows the tips of the horrors in them. Only knows that they are horrors. 

Do nine-tailed foxes rest in horror?

He exhales quietly, kissing Komaeda’s temple before closing his eyes again, trying to lull himself back into  _ something,  _ for better or for worse. Likely for the worst, but he’s learned to stop waking up screaming. He can’t say the same for his head, or for the other. He can’t trust those words much anymore.

(every day is more of a nightmare than what comes for him in the dark.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have a heightening fear of accidentally contradicting myself while writing this fic. 
> 
> i know this chapter is shorter, and i apologize for that. i was not planning on making these chapters have several scenes in them, but this fic is fairly experimental overall, so i think that's excusable of me. 
> 
> i pray today is kind to you. take care, my loves.

**Author's Note:**

> hello there. this is a multichapter fanfiction i am planning to primarily update when i need to vent-- meaning, no consistent upload schedule, and no definite promise i'll complete it. it is a reformed version of an old wip i had, and the prose in the story might be a bit scattered. bear with me. 
> 
> have a lovely night, darlings.


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